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Thursday, December 24, 2009

I was twenty years old, working at a frame shop in downtown Dallas. I lived alone in a trailer, in a field beside a freeway.

I was saving my money to go to art school in Philadelphia in the fall. Through a friend of a friend, I met Laura Hanley. Laura had just come home from Brown University. She was a thin girl of medium height, with short, wavy brown hair. I never had a photo of her, but she looked like astronomer Bethany Cobb.

Laura had a quiet grace. She’d studied at the Providence Zen Center so I talked to her about the ideas I’d gotten from Alan Watts. I developed a huge crush on Laura instantly, and plotted to see her as often as I could.

One spring day before the awful heat, I went to White Rock Lake with my usual gang of friends. Laura arrived with a handsome, bearded young man, and I didn’t know if he was her boyfriend or not. She wore a summer shift, printed with Van Gogh drawings. I went crazy inside with desire for her. Maneuvering myself subtlely, I lay down on the grass and put my head in her lap. The man she’d come with was in sight, playing Frisbee. Laura held my hand and the hand of another girl while we talked. Oh, her warm legs were around my head and I looked up into her nostrils as she spoke softly. Ecstasy.

Laura was dissatisfied with life, wasn’t sure what she wanted to do. She didn’t like Brown and looked for a new direction. Zen didn’t satisfy her yearning for spiritual community, either. She attended “group study meetings” which she described as “Christian.” I asked her to go out with me one weekend, and she said she wanted to but we’d have to wait until she got back from a “retreat” in Colorado. I phoned her house after her scheduled return, but she decided to stay longer. A week, two weeks, three weeks passed.

After a month, a friend told me Laura had joined Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s Unification Church. She was working on a communal farm in the Rockies that the Church owned. This revelation gave pause to my ignorant lust. I’d heard news reports about Reverend Moon’s operations for years, and they sounded ridiculous. Moon dictated every aspect of his followers’ lives. He picked out disciples two by two — apparently at random — and commanded them to marry. And they did it! I wondered about these people. Why did they just turn their lives over to Moon? He wasn’t attractive, and life in his service was by no means pleasant.

I wrote letters to Laura in Colorado and she wrote back with considerable warmth. I couldn’t take the Moonie thing seriously, and hoped for another chance to romance her. Perhaps I would go visit her at Brown after I got settled in Philadelphia.

Christmas, 1980

During Christmas break, back in Texas, I saw Laura Hanley again. We went to dinner and talked about our autumn experiences. Naturally, Reverend Moon figured heavily in Laura’s mind. her conversion baffled me; she wanted to throw her Ivy League education over to raise money for the Church. She might even marry a Korean believer so he could stay in America legally. Laura was a princess, who'd grown up with advantages I never had, but they didn’t mean anything to her. I drove her home to her big house in Highland Park. When I kissed her, she made wonderful little noises, “oom, oom.” I hoped I would see her in the spring, perhaps I’d take the train up or she could come down to Philadelphia.

I bought a copy of Moon’s book Divine Principle and began reading. Great literature, this was not. Moon rambled on about the sad state of the world, about Bible prophecy, and every sentence pointed back to himself as the savior of mankind. His presentation style reminded me of Hitler’s Mein Kampf, with its wacky perversion of logic: “(A) is true. Because (A) is true, (B) is also true. (A) + (B) = proof that Reverend Moon is the Messiah.” I was shocked, not by the brazen idiocy, but at Laura’s earnest interest in it. Laura had seen more of the world, had better education than I did. How could she accept this tripe? I expected she'd come to her senses any day.

Spring, 1981

Laura Hanley came to visit me. She was staying in the hotel Reverend Moon owned in midtown Manhattan, attending Moonie events and proselytizing. Laura called me because she was marching at a rally in Philadelphia. I bought her lunch at a little Irish Pub on Walnut Street. I even ordered a split of champagne for us.

Laura asked me what I thought of Reverend Moon's book. At this tender age, I believed in honesty. I told her plainly I thought he was an incoherent charlatan.

She smiled at me and told me my understanding was limited. Unification was an experience, not an idea or a book. I should quit reading and come experience it. In despair, I said, "Laura, I don't think we're searching for the same thing. I want to understand my life, the world. But I don't think you care about understanding or what's true. You really want somebody over you, somebody who'll just tell you what to do, so you don't have to think about it."

"You may be right about that," she said.

I showed her my little room in the Chancellor, the paintings I'd done at the Academy. She said, "I see a lot of love in these," and beamed an angelic smile at me. If I had it to do over again, I would just tackle her right there, but I didn't. Youth is wasted on the timid. She asked me to come to a weekend Moonie retreat in the Pocono Mountains but I refused. I was willing to do a lot to get closer to Laura, but I knew if I rode in a van with other Moonies, I'd end up losing it, attacking them with a tire iron, saying, "Die, zombies, die!"

It was easy for me to criticize Laura, but what alternative future was I pulling for? I couldn't say or do much to push Reverend Moon out of her heart. All I wanted was for her to stop worshipping Moon and start worshipping me. Granted, I was better looking, but Moon was far better organized. He had a plan for capturing Laura and putting her to work for his greater glory. I had no plan, beyond an intense longing to watch her undress.

We waited for the bus on Walnut Street. Laura's pretty brows knit in concentration as she said, "If you think there's any chance that Reverend Moon is a prophet from God, you owe it to yourself to attend this retreat and find out."

"You're right, Laura. That's why I'm not going. I don't think there is one chance in hell that Reverend Moon is a prophet from God."

I've made incredibly stupid mistakes in my life, and many of them involved beautiful women. That was one time I had my head on straight. Beautiful, dark-haired Laura Hanley got on the Walnut Street bus and I walked back to the Chancellor. I have not seen her since, these twenty-eight years. I'm not sure why this memory seems sad to me now. It's the loss, the reminder that every minute is another Laura Hanley riding away, never returning. And everything I hold close today will recede from this moment forward, until I look back and see—not an afternoon in my life, but a lost world, inhabited by creatures now extinct. A distant planet, so far away that even if I could rush out toward it, I wouldn't live long enough to get there.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

By the time you get to be my age it's like you're having breakfast every fifteen minutes.— Kitty Carlisle Hart

Three of us, Tilden Park, December.

Hello again. I hope life was good to you in 2009. Weren't we cleaning up from New Year's Day, just a few weeks ago?

The major events in our family this year: Max began Kindergarten and Japanese Saturday school, we took a vacation, I got laid off and got a new job right away. We can't ask for better luck than this. So why am I so exhausted?

We are well. Max is much bigger, more difficult, and more interesting to be with. Recently he said to me, "I’m too busy to be even talking to you! Please don’t bother me!" Shades of our future. In truth, Max is a busy boy. He goes to school six days a week, five to English Kindergarten and once to study Japanese on Saturday. He already has homework almost every night, to which he submits gracefully, for a little boy.

Family life has been compared to running a business. For me, it is especially like operating a small store. We have a full schedule of work to do each day, just to keep the store open. Thanks to Misa and Max, the store is still open for business. Misa worked very hard and long. Max helped as much as we could expect.

I made four short movies this year. You can see them at the links to the left, or visit my list on YouTube.

A few scenes from 2009 follow. Enjoy, and please send me your news.

This is a paper model of the Cathedral of Florence I built for Max last Christmas. It doesn't look especially difficult, but I worked about 40 hours on this thing! That's my exciting life, getting up early to fold little bits of paper, with tweezers and glue.

I continued work on the four-part painting of San Francisco. In a normal week, I paint every day. There were many abnormal weeks this year, but the pictures marched forward. This is the second panel's state in November.

Max's pre-school heartthrob, the beautiful Mei Yokoyama moved back to Japan in February. We miss her and her family.

In February we visited my family in Dallas. Misa, Lila and Max Turnage

Misa made lunch for Max every day. She took time to make it pretty and delicious.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

The photo above is from 1985. This battered Volkswagen Van contained all my possessions at that time, and the pillow tied on top is my futon-bed. It wasn't much stuff, and yet this load weighed me down. Several times on the road from Philadelphia to Dallas, I was tempted to park the van and walk away from it.

There's a wonderful scene in Franco Zefferelli's movie Brother Sun, Sister Moon, in which young Saint Francis gives his clothes to his father in the central square of Assisi, then walks away naked, toward sainthood. The actor playing Francis, Graham Faulkner was young and toned; this helped us stop wondering what he would do a few minutes later, when thorns and bugs attacked him. Nevertheless, we tend to over-estimate the usefulness of things we keep, and under-estimate what keeping them costs us, to the extent we consider this at all.

The cost reveals itself at odd moments. While recovering from a devastating break-up, I noticed that my mood soared, each time I disposed of something associated with the dead romance. It was a complete surprise. I didn't think that lamp from Target was weighing me down. Despite this discovery, I didn't throw everything out. The urge to hoard stuff was so strong, the remnants of the past life left one at a time, over many years. If I had it to do over again, I'd pack a bag and walk away from it all. I'd have been stronger much sooner that way.

Imagine walking into this beautiful room. Notice the rounded windows, like the gateway in the movie poster above. We could dance across it, skate across it, sit in the uncrowded light and air. But to sit we'd need a chair. Maybe a table. A few books. Well maybe a few more. Before long, I would block up the windows with stuff, and this room would resemble the cluttered space I'm sitting in now.

Probably we need some of this stuff, but it must be less than I have. Our things clutter our minds, not just our houses. I think that's why some of us are drawn to the ocean or the desert.

How often I've traveled to a place like the Grand Canyon and wanted to stay there. Never mind I can't stand heat. The greatest thing about this view: It has none of my baggage in it. On that basis, almost any place would do as well, provided I didn't send back for the moving van.

Years ago, my apartment looked like this tunnel of books. I wanted the books around me, because I was proud of having read them all. I wanted to remember what I'd learned, and probably I wanted to impress visitors with my vast knowledge. But now, today, remembering is not the challenge. Now I must get new thoughts in my head. Out! Out, all of you! I'll see you in the public library if you're needed again!

We think we're strong enough to carry all this stuff, to hold it in our arms, and still open those arms to new ideas. We only defeat ourselves. Learning, working, romance, all start with empty space. If there's no room for them, they can't come in to our lives.

Emptiness is a necessary precondition. For this reason, I'm not bothered by the possibility that life has no meaning. Life might be empty of meaning in the same way that a suitcase is empty when you buy it. No one would buy a suitcase already full of someone else's stuff. The emptiness makes it useful! It's our invitation. The universe offers us a place to perform, and fill our corner with the meaning we discover. This is better than than swallowing a meaning given to us from outside.

We grow strong when we open to the present moment. Clarity of vision lends us the force of urgency. Precious little time remains, to do better work, to learn new lessons.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Holidays. I'm both attracted to them and repelled by them. Thanksgiving delivers a wonderful idea—let's appreciate what we have—and an undertone of accusation: You need to be reminded. You're not grateful enough on your own. You don't really deserve what you have, it's just luck or a gift from God that He plans to take back soon.

Does anyone else feel this way? Maybe not. Guilt is my general reaction to everything.

So guilty or not, here are some things I like. They keep me going.

Max [right], seen here with his friends, lining up for Kindergarten.

Living close to the ocean. It's a mental pleasure, since I'm never getting in that freezing water, like these brave surfers.

Monday, November 9, 2009

In October, 1989 I lived in the Richmond District of San Francisco. I was married to a tall southern belle, and we rented an apartment with 15 windows and sweeping views. We'd come to the city two years earlier, with all our stuff in the back of a station wagon. The city had been good to us.

I painted outdoors a great deal, on the cliffs around Land's End. I had accumulated enough work to participate in San Francisco's Open Studios event. I found a group space at an industrial building on York Street, and paid to show my paintings there. The other artists in the building showed a wide variety of work. Some of it, like the sculpture above, was thoughtful, accomplished and interesting. On the other hand, the idea of "art" is often the refuge of the criminally insane.

A few feet away from my earnest, boring rectangles, a group of aging white guys—The Architects of Doom—built a large installation, resembling a 1970s rumpus room, a place where the Brady Bunch might go to relax. The night of the show's opening, they gave a performance, by tearing everything up with power tools, while shrieking their lungs out. It was a toss-up between Primal Scream therapy session and prison riot. Unpleasant as this episode was, it was merely the beginning. The Architects videotaped the carnage, and played it back in a continuous loop for the next two days, at top volume [of course], about ten feet from where I had to sit. When people call artists "dangerous," the artists often swell with pride. These guys were dangerous like razorback hogs.

The Architects were not the only antagonists in the show, just the loudest. Another artist insisted her dog was part of her installation. Predictably, she barely batted an eye when it urinated on other artists' work. I woke with flea bites. Altogether, York Street 1989 was an experience better remembered than re-lived.

Glad was I to pack up my pictures, spray them for fleas and return to my cliffs by the sea. The next weekend, I worked on the painting above. The high point at the center of this composition was fenced off years ago, but when I worked here, a trail led up to it, with a big sign reading, "Stay Back! People Have Fallen To Their Deaths."

It was a perfect day. Seals flipped in the water below me. After a rewarding afternoon, I strapped my french easel to my back and walked home. When I got to my apartment door, the strap broke and the box fell, tearing the panel two inches at the top and putting a permanent stain on the carpeted stairs. I paused for a moment, and thought, "What big effects from a tiny event! If all my actions were this powerful, I'd be a millionaire."

Then came Tuesday afternoon. I was preparing to leave my job at a law firm, on the 25th Floor of a building downtown. I waited for the elevator, but before it arrived, the floor began to move underneath me. I ran back into the office and got under a desk, just before the shaking intensified. The scientists told us the earthquake only lasted 15 seconds. If you happen to experience something similar, it may surprise you, how long 15 seconds can seem, when you think you're about to die. The building continued to sway and settle a while longer, after the ground was still.

One of the worst things about a big earthquakes is the aftershocks. You know they're coming, but that doesn't help. They can be worse than the initial movement, because all your nerves are raw. Only a few minutes had passed when the building moved again. From down the hall, I heard the voice of an ambitious paralegal barking, "First aftershock!" A minute later, she yelled, "The Bay Bridge has collapsed!" This woman annoyed the hell out of me, but she also lent a breath of humor to a dark moment. Like Alexander Haig, she wanted everyone to know that she was in control here. She intended to take charge of this earthquake and make it her own.

Out on the street, there was much confusion. I wondered if I would have to walk six miles to get home. By a stroke of luck, my normal bus pulled up to its stop and I got on. Progress was glacial, due to heavy traffic and a power blackout. None of the streetlights worked, either. By the time I got off the bus, the neighborhood was so dark, I worried I'd get hit crossing the street. The stairs in our apartment building had no windows, so I had to feel along like a blind person. Half way up, I heard the welcome voice of my neighbor, Brian Jackson. His wife worked on the peninsula south of town, and wasn't able to come home right away. We looked out the window and saw the scene in the photo above. The red lights at right are on the Golden Gate Bridge. It's remarkable for what's missing, the lights of the city. This is how it looked in the day:

The aftershocks continued all night. The next morning the sun rose beautifully. This city really knows how to advertise itself. It's like a difficult lover, who never looks sweeter than when she's sorry after a big fight.

We picked up our friend Sara in the Marina. I suggested we take a drink on the roof, and celebrate the fact that we'd survived. The initial reporting was not accurate; 57 people died, instead of "hundreds." When I bought wine at the grocery, there were long lines of people buying beer, charcoal and potato chips. We laughed at ourselves. Our light attitude may seem insensitive, but I, for one, was still terrified underneath it. Unfortunately, there wasn't much we could do to help, and we had time to kill between aftershocks. Later, I read about the Great Earthquake of 1906, and many San Franciscans reacted the same way, climbing Twin Peaks to watch the city burn. They looked remarkably well-dressed for the occasion.

All of this was long ago, when we were young. We might have died, but we didn't. We can make the same benediction on this day.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Exactly two weeks after I received notice that I would be laid off, I accepted a new job at my company. Many thanks to each or you who encouraged me during this time. A lay-off can happen again, to either of us, just about any time.

This was an interesting experience. It opened my mind to many ideas, and tested my understanding of how the world works. I plan to write more about these subjects later. In the mean time, if you want to put yourself in the best possible position to endure a lay-off, I recommend Keith Ferrazzi's book, Never Eat Alone: And Other Secrets to Success, One Relationship at a Time Ferrazzi's approach has worked well for me. He writes:

There has never been a better time to reach out and connect than right now. The dynamic of our society, and particularly of our economy, will increasingly be defined by interdependence and interconnectivity. In other words, the more everything becomes connected to everything and everyone else, the more we begin to depend on whom and what we’re connected with.

Now that life is returning to "normal," I'd like to show you some photographs by Samuel Gottscho. They are incredible, romantic visions. I don't think it's possible to see Mr. Gottscho's photographs of New York, without wanting to pack your suitcase and race to Manhattan.

Even in photography, we see what the artist wants us to see. The image is processed through a machine, but it is the artist's eye that determines the feeling expressed. Spend five minutes with Samuel Gottscho, and you'll never mistake his photographs for anyone else's.

Mr. Gottscho came to photography late in life. He couldn't quit his job in sales and concentrate on taking photographs until he was 50 years old. Fortunately for us, he was blessed with a long life. He said he did his best work around age 70. His example gives hope to people like me, who wasted their youth.

Monday, October 26, 2009

I apologize for the long gap in posting. I want to resume posting weekly. However, the blog is likely to have more gaps for the time being, due to life changes:

In the field of opportunity, it's ploughing time again. — Neil Young

Last week my employer told me my position will be eliminated in mid-November. In the next few weeks at least, I will devote most of my attention to setting up a new job. I like my current job, so this is a major shift in plans. So far, I have many indications that the transition will be positive. Misa and I have prepared for this possibility, and my company is being very helpful.

This is a surprise opportunity to re-examine what I want from working, and what value I'm offering in return. It's a lot to think about. I needed an outside kick in the pants, to focus my attention on these larger questions.

To help me concentrate, Misa serves me wonderful dinners. They are just as delicious to the eye as to the palate. Last week she cooked homemade sushi and chicken linguini.

Last Saturday we moved through Golden Gate Park with Maxwell Nakamura and his parents. [My son's name is Maxwell also.] The two boys rode bikes and played hide-and-seek in the trees.

We enjoyed a to-die-for autumn afternoon, and the two Maxwells made the most of it. I told them they could ride all around Spreckels Lake on their own, because we could see the whole route from our bench. Living in the city, they rarely get to explore on their own. The boys rewarded our trust: Both returned, and neither got wet.

Our time together ended, and we prepared to go home through the long shadows. I remembered a favorite passage from Louis-Ferdinand Céline's Journey to the End of the Night:

Far in the distance the tugboat whistled; its call passed the bridge, one more arch, then another, the lock, another bridge, farther and farther . . . It was summoning all the barges on the river, every last one, and the whole city and the sky and the countryside and ourselves, to carry us all away, the Seine too—and that would be the end of us.